Tag: Soho

The Three Witches

The Three Witches

Comptons of SohoA while back, I took a little trip to the big city to catch up with old friends, a regular gig and a tradition going back years. It’s what we call the witches coven, a time to conspire, bitch and stir the pot without the distractions of coupledom getting in on the act. We leave our significant others at home to do the washing up. I’d like to claim it’s a carnival of sparkling wit and profound insight but the excess tends to dull the repartee.

I waited for the coven to convene in Comptons, a Soho bar of some infamy and a regular haunt of my dance hall days. I was early and ordered a pint. Little has changed at Comptons down the years but bog standard beer has been cynically replaced by premium ales with premium prices to match. Even by Soho’s inflated tariffs, the cost is extortionate; I’ve been on cheaper Ryanair flights. It was ever thus. Having a gay old time has always come at a price.

As ever, the beefy bar staff were useless. Getting served at Comptons is like a game of chance and what little change you get back is shunted towards you in a plastic tray, a kind of begging bowl for the minimally waged. Company policy, I assume. Us Brits tend not to tip bar staff but I suppose the ruse works with unsuspecting tourists. I scooped up my coppers and found a quiet spot to sip my beer, thumb through the gaypers and wait for my fellow witches to arrive. Before long, a young Asian man sidled up next to me and began a nervous conversation. From his awkwardness and stuttering babble, I guessed he was a Soho novice. To the uninitiated, even the oppressed can be oppressive and I knew from experience that being gay and Asian doesn’t always make a great cocktail. I was more than happy to put the young whippersnapper at his ease. As it turned out, he was an air traffic controller at Heathrow. That’s all we need in these paranoid times. A jittery air traffic controller with secrets.

Postcards from Soho

Postcards from Soho

Ian, one of my oldest friends, is the area manager of a gay ‘lifestyle’ chain (AKA licensed sex shops – don’t tell his mother). The filthy smut flies off the shelves as the filthy lucre fills the tills even during these recessionary times. Well, people stay in more and make a meal of it.  Despite his status as purveyor of porn to the Grindr generation, Ian is an off-fashioned boy with the Nineties hairdo to prove it. He shuns the modern world of instantaneous communication for a more leisurely discourse – snail-mail rather than e-mail, hand-crafted notes rather than instant messaging. Even his flip-top phone belongs in the Science Museum. He’s particularly scathing about Facebook, seeing it as the work of the Devil. I picked up this postcard and sent it to him. I wrote, “I saw this card and thought of you.”

Facebook

A couple of days later I received this card in the post. Ian had written, “I saw this card and thought of you.” Touché!

Gayer than

Willy-Wares and Booby Prizes

elf hatThe excessive festive recess started with a Soho reunion: old friends, cards and kisses, secret Santa tat and drunken frolics. It’s a Yuletide tradition of our own making. The next day, Liam and I had a parting of the Christmas ways, he to his folks, me to little sis. ‘Twas the season to be separated when love and duty called. Supermum sis cooked up an all-the-trimmings banquet for a small tribe. The ten ton turkey was the size of an ostrich and took two of her strong lads to haul the big bird into the oven. Plates were perched on every surface and piled high with just-right tastiness. I don’t how she does it. There was just one minor fly in the ointment. A kitchen frisk uncovered a sprout-less cupboard. Trifling recriminations were muttered over the sink, but it suited me just fine, not least because it avoided a windy afternoon with my old mother bringing up the rear. As usual, I didn’t lift a finger. My sister never lets me. I always offer, honestly I do, but my pleas fall on dismissive ears. She always makes me feel like a treasured guest. Brimming glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and a hot water bottle was slipped into my pit while my back was turned. Liam joined the fray on Boxing Day, sporting an elf hat and dragging his bulging sack of filthy goodies from Ann Summers. ‘Rude and Lewd’ could be our family motto and Liam raised the tone with willy-wares, booby prizes and lick-me-quick licentiousness. I could show you the photographs but I fear a call to Social Services might be the outcome. Priceless.

Soho Cinders has a Ball

Picture it, a sultry night in sinful Soho and a pink twist on an old family favourite. Our penthouse pals treated us to a night at the theatre –  a much appreciated welcome home gift. We took our seats at the Soho Theatre, artistic home to the innovative, the avant garde, the experimental and, sometimes, the plain bonkers. The intimate auditorium has a steep incline providing an unobstructed view of the snug stage and the bald spots in the rows below. The entertainment was Soho Cinders, a modern fable fit for the Grindr age. Think grubby spin doctor oiling the wheels, angelic rent boy trying to make an honest crust, clip joint sisters in pussy pelmets and ‘straight’ Tory politician knocking off the pretty boy on the side. The only Buttons on show were the ones on the punters who couldn’t keep their flies shut. It was fabulous. The score was full of fun and pathos, the lyrics were comically topical and the performances were bouncy and vital. The salacious sisters got my vote for the best lines. From one ugly trollop to the other:

You’re like a ten pin bowling ball – picked up, fingered and thrown back down the alley.

Cinders went to the glittery Ball and the rubber johnny fitted, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘He’s behind you.’

I give you They Don’t Make Glass Slippers, one of the many splendid songs from the show.

Written in the Stars

The frosty flurry in old London Town soon turned to sloppy slurry. Sunday was our day of rest away from commitments. We decided to do what we rarely do these days – a West End jolly, just the two of us. It was a strangely alien experience. The Sunday evening stalwart – Jivin’ Julie’s karaoke night for the hairy marys down the Kings Arms (or Kings Arse, as it’s affectionately known) was a shadow of its former self. The fat crowd has thinned to just a few old fairy faithfuls. We ventured to Comptons, the pivot around which gay Soho revolves, to find it bereft of punters except for a few lonely tourists, northern fag hags in mountainous heels and Russell Grant. Sadly, cuddly Russ hasn’t managed to keep the weight off following his stint as housewive’s choice on Strictly Come Dancing. I bet he didn’t see that coming in the stars.

All the bars told a similar sad and sorry tale. Was it the long recession or the wind chill that kept the boys under the duvet? Perhaps it was neither. Restaurants were buzzing away to the sound of glasses clinking and tills cher-chinking. Perhaps the crowd has moved on to pastures new. Perhaps the pubs should lower their beer prices. We joined the throng at an eaterie and supped Rioja into the small hours.

Prowler Stocks Perking the Pansies

Prowler WindowOn the day Perking the Pansies, hit the presses, I found out that Joe Storey-Scott, the Book & Film Buyer for Millivres Prowler Group, contacted my publisher, Jo Parfitt. Prowler is Blighty’s premiere gay lifestyle chain with outlets in Brighton and on London’s Brewer Street, Soho. Joe has agreed to stock the book. Wow. Thank you, Joe.

Check out the book

Jack the Mascot

I have just reconnected with a long lost Blighty pal. His name is Andy and, nowadays, he’s someone awfully important in local government. We first became acquainted many moons ago at a drunken trivial pursuit work shindig. We were on opposing teams. I was the captain of my team which I called Kings and Queen. His team was called Gail Tisley’s Chin. The chin won by a nose. We got chatting afterwards over a tankard or two and thereafter became pals. Andy is a Barnsley lad with thick accent to match and a call a spade a spade Yorkshire charm.  I was a cynical old pro and he was the new kid on the block at the tender of just 21.

Corrie Gail

Andy is irrepressibly heterosexual and so secure in his sexuality he isn’t fazed by mine in the slightest.  I dragged him around the gay fleshpots of Soho. He didn’t flinch from the lecherous shenanigans. He assumed the role of my bodyguard protecting me from the wanted attentions of the dive bar boys, much to my distress. He used to drink in Earls Court, a gay mecca in those far off days. He isn’t bi-curious. It was the only place to get an after hours drink back then.

Andy decided to get hitched and held his stag do in Blackpool. A bit of a cliché but great fun nonetheless. It was thirty straight lads and me. I was the little gay mascot. I got chatting to one of his unsuspecting northern mates. ‘I hear a poof’s come along for the ride,’ he said. ‘That’ll be me,’ I replied. Despite the macho bravado from the boisterous boys I was the only one who actually got a ride that weekend.

Eventually Andy moved on to a better job and we lost touch. It’s an all too common problem for the transient workers of London. He’s still married to pretty little Jill and a proud father of two boys. They’ll grow up happy and well-balanced. Andy will make sure of it. I’m looking for a trip down memory lane when I’m next back in Blighty.

It’ll Make You Go Blind

Clive and I know one another from our salad days. In those distant times we were two of the three fey musketeers. Our third partner in camp crime was Paul who jumped the good ship Blighty many decades ago to dwell in a Parisian garret and chain-smoke Gitanes. Birds of a feather flock together. We somehow knew we were different and so did everyone else. We were relentlessly teased from the moment we entered the school gates. Nothing physical, you understand. That would be unseemly at a traditional grammar school with 400 years of history. Besides, beatings were reserved for the teachers to discharge. I suppose we hardly helped our cause by being rubbish at rugby and lip-synching to the backing vocals of Mott the Hoople’s Roll Away the Stone in Clive’s front room. Our sex education consisted of lecturing hormonal adolescents on the evils of masturbation. It nearly caused a riot.

Ian is a more recent acquaintance, a mere 15 years so a young friendship. As saucy singletons he and I trawled the dances halls of Europe and had a ball. Nowadays we are both hitched and respectable members of the elder gay community. Ian exists at the epicentre of gay culture by managing a licenced sex shop in Soho. He won’t tell his mother he’s gay. She knows of course. Mothers always do. But then, being nearly 50 with teeth and hair intact and never marrying is a bit of a clue.

Tales of the City

Clive and partner Angus, invited us for dinner; a civilised and sophisticated affair, attended by some of our other long-term London life friends, Debbie, Ian and his partner, Matt. Clive is my oldest friend, more like a brother really. We attended the same school and have travelled down the years together, not always agreeing, sometimes quarrelling but always caring.

Debbie is a voluptuous head buyer for Fenwick’s who travels between the fashion capitals of the world seeking the latest accessories. She is Miss Mortgage Free of Kingston-upon-Thames so the girl from The Valleys has done good.

Ian is the manager of a Soho porn store, though he prefers to call it a ‘lifestyle’ shop, principally for his mother’s benefit. When pressed, he readily admits that R rated DVDs and poppers are the biggest draws. Apparently, regardless of the brand, poppers (or ‘room odorisers’ to give them their proper retail name) are all made by a man called Colin in his shed in Carshalton. Ian is particularly proud of his Christmas windows this year with little bottles of lube and condoms sitting prettily in sparkly trees between a pair of overpriced designer knickers and the new Armistead Maupin novel. “Beat that John Lewis!” he proudly exclaimed. Matt is a banker and has recently moved to a new position where the dealers know what wine to drink. He tells me this is the only qualification required of a banker these days. They are the archetypal urban gay couple with a penthouse flat in Bow and a mortgage the size of the Irish bailout.

The evening frolicked along handsomely. I miss the intelligent banter and repartee. It’s not something we get much of in Yalıkavak where espousing the malevolence of the Daily Mail is the usual stuff of debate.